


Two Evils

by thecat_13145



Category: Oliver Twist - All Media Types, Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Child Abuse, Prostitution, hints of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1818172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecat_13145/pseuds/thecat_13145
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fagin is bad, but he is not the worst</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Evils

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired/a reaction to "Oliver Twist Investigates" by G.M.Best. I got thinking that people are normally rather unfair to Fagin. Yes, he's a bad guy, but there are considerably worse who could have found Oliver.  
> That got linked in my head with the fact that Fagin is hanged in the book, when at the time his crime (Fencing/receiving of stolen goods and training children to steal) were no longer capital crimes. My brain started screaming cover up and this is the result (Also I can't believe I'm the only person to write a Sherlock Holmes/Oliver Twist Cross over). It will almost certainly be part of series, but I'm not promising anything.

On the whole, Fagin thought as he threaded his way through Whitechapel, he preferred dealing with Colonel Moran to the Professor.

The Colonel was a really gentleman, an army man through and through. That his Sergeants were now kidsmen, fences, Pimps, pounces and the like did not concern the man at all. He treated them exactly as he would in the army. He gave orders and he expected them to be obeyed. The man did not waste his breath with threats, because it would simply never occur to him until it happened that his orders would be disobey. If they were, his anger would undoubtedly be terrible, but Fagin was careful never to do so. 

The professor on the other hand…Fagin shivered at the memory of that oscillating head, those eyes peering out from beneath the high domed forehead, that cold voice as he listed the boys names. 

If the colonel referred to it, it was to as to a private under his command, to express admiration for a particular heist or to suggest improvements to a boy’s method or training. With the Professor…Fagin shivered again. He was relieved he hadn’t agreed to Dodger’s pleas to accompany him. 

His heart lightened as his feet came on to familiar streets. The business was concluded. It was unlikely he would be required to see the other man for several months.

A door opened ahead of him, spilling light on to the pavement, its occupants almost fell out along with it. Fagin frowned.

He knew the building and knew its purpose. Officially, it was a telegraph office, and certainly a large circle of smartly uniformed boys left there with paper envelopes and returned with money. But only the truly foolish, or the truly naïve believe that its business had anything to do with telegrams. The boys were the true commodities that it traded in.

Fagin had no time or patience with the business, or its proprietor, John Blake. Blake had once actually dared to suggest to Fagin that they should go into partnership. 

Fagin snorted to himself. He had no illusions about himself, but he was not going to sell his boys to Blake. He had seen the end result too many times, had nearly being the end result. 

Blake had being persistent. So much so that Fagin had had to appeal to first Sikes and then the professor to protect his boys. The professor had sent the Colonel around. Fagin smiled at the memory.

The Colonel had seemed completely unaffected, far more so than a fine upstanding gentleman had to be in such circumstances. He had very calmly explained to Blake that Fagin’s operation was extremely valuable to the professor and as a result those boys under Fagin’s protection were to be left alone. They were not to be enticed, threatened or even approached by Blake or those associated with them. When Blake had begun to protest, the Colonel had reached down and picked up the counter which ran across the room (the sole effort to suggest a legitimate business venture) and without sweating had placed it on the other side of the room. His eyes had communicated very clearly that if Blake (who was not a large man, even smaller than Fagin), continued in his protests he would be next. 

Chortling to himself at the memory of Blake’s face, Fagin slipped between the two gentlemen who had just left Blake’s establishment.

His hand slipped loosely into the pocket of one of the men as he past and slipped out again unnoticed.

In the next street, Fagin crowed to himself. Not as neat as Dodger, but that boy had a gift few could equal.

Carefully, he glanced down inspecting his prize. A card case, silver plated. Very nice, very stylish. 

He opened it, carefully extracting the cards from within its depths. No engraving, nothing to betray its history, just the cards.

_Mr. Edward Brownlow_ and an address in London. Fagin smiled to himself, dropping the cards into the sewer as he passed.

Safe as houses this was. After all, the gentleman could hardly admit to the police where he was when his pocket was picked.

Cackling to himself, Fagin headed up the stairs towards his own front door. 

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

_Some months later_

Fagin sighed, as he listened to Nancy’s account. The boy hadn’t peached. There was nothing really lost. He had guessed, as he knew Dodger had, that the boy would never make a pick pocket. He had the fingers, the long fingers that were so useful in their profession, but he lacked something, that indefinable quality that marked his best boys. And he had already proven that he was no runner.

Best to pass to the boy back to the parish, let them have the joy of him.

An icy hand gripped at his stomach, as Nancy finished her story

“What name did you say again, my dear?”


End file.
